Sometimes I just don't know how.

If only I had left for work two minutes earlier this morning.  I might have turned off the radio while they were discussing the symbolism of St. Francis.  But I was still listening to the radio when they started telling another story.  It's a variant of the story I'm trying to fix, a variant of the story someone just told me, not two hours ago, sitting in my office.  And it's a variant of the story from Tuesday evening, the story about stolen voices, about power and the lack thereof.

The story on the radio makes me sick to my stomach.  The story I just wrote down makes me angry.  The story in my office makes me want to weep.